


let him live

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Endeavour is a Thursday, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jakes POV, Magical Realism, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: They rushed Morse away, and Thursday is gone too, so Jakes is left alone to face the pain and fear, and the fact that he's pretty sure he has just killed his best friend.
Relationships: Peter Jakes & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	let him live

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rusty Cage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033488) by [imaginationtherapy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy). 
  * Inspired by [The Ship In Which You Sail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949842) by [Hekate1308](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308). 

> This fic is an add-on to a fic by imaginationtherapy - Rusty Cage- both of which are set in Hekate1308's _ The Ship In Which You Sail _ universe (which I will link to when I work out how to do that lol) I would HIGHLY reccomend going and reading both of those before you read this because it'll make a lot more sense. Hekate1308's will set up the universe, and imaginationtherapy's the story this is set in. They're both brilliant fics in their own right, written by great authors so if you haven't already GO NOW read!!
> 
> anyways, this is a Jakes POV set between chapters 15 and 16, because I was like "hey, imaginationtherapy, do you think Jakes has suffered enough yet? No? Me neither, I'm gonna do something about that" honestly many thanks hun, without you to inspire all my terrible ideas,,, i would be lost! 
> 
> WARNINGS for descriptions of panic attacks and mentions of past child abuse and supernatural attacks
> 
> title totally from lew mis because tonight i watched Luke Evans sing it and oh god i love this song

God, did his head hurt. A blinding pain, right behind his eyes, that rocked around his head with every movement. Jakes was sprawled out on a bed, it's sheets still tucked tightly in. Monica had pushed him towards the empty room and promised someone would be in to help him as soon as possible. He had staggered towards the bed, then back to the door again to find the light switch and slammed at it. His head was  _ killing  _ him he was sure of it. Struggling to stand any longer, he fell face first against the rough cotton sheets, legs dangling off the end of the bed. 

Something about the movement seemed so final, like everything had finally come to a head, spilled over and shattered, that he felt something in himself slip a little. A strangled noise escaped him, and he realised with horror, he was crying. Ugly great sobs, the product of pain and exhaustion and fear and relief all crashing out of him. He pulled his knees up, head down, curling in on himself. He prayed the healer would be delayed a little longer, because he was in no fit state to be seen. 

He cried till his throat was sore, and his eyes stung, but he felt a little better having gotten it out of his system. His head still stung something rotten though, as he dragged himself upright. The pain had settled somewhere at the back now, at the base of his skull, making his head heavy and cumbersome. It was a struggle to sit up, so he half sat, propped up on pillows and crashed. He felt pathetic, but equally too bone-deep tired to do anything about it. 

It was then he heard from the corridor, the sound of footsteps rushing, and someone said the name  _ Thursday  _ and Jakes almost bolted upright.  _ Morse.  _ He had to get to him, see him, make sure he was safe. They’d only just pulled Morse, the  _ real  _ Morse from the clutches of unspeakable evil, but there was no telling exactly what lasting damage he held.  _ Sczhieldengoethe’s  _ effects were terrible at best, unknowable at worst. If the lingering parts of the spell didn’t kill him, then the physical wounds might; the broken leg, the wrist, or whatever infection dirty, bloodied needles might hold. If that didn’t do it, the memory of it all might. The phantom pain the few survivors felt, the echoes of trauma relieved with every breath. Jakes could feel it, a shadow of it at least. The bubbling beneath his skin, pinpricks of fire where he had pulled what he could from Morse. In the moment it had been blinding, had him seeing stars as the flames licked up his arms and wrapped around his chest. It still lingered now, nothing compared to what Morse was feeling, and that was what scared Jakes the most. He felt like death warmed up, in enough pain that curling up and slipping away felt easy. If that was what five minutes of someone else’s  _ Sczhieldengoethe’s  _ did to someone...

Jakes felt tears prick at his eyes again. Morse was going to die. That’s why they had called for Monica, and now Thursday was pacing the halls; waiting for his son to die. There was nothing he could do, he had been too late, too stupid, too weak, and he’d let this happen. Now Morse would pay the price with his life. 

A sharp pain shot through Jakes’ chest at the realisation.  _ He  _ was the reason for this. He had tipped the scales at the end, he’d been the last wave of pain Morse had ever felt before slipping into whatever pain induced coma he was in now.  _ Jakes  _ had done that. The thought of Morse, already beaten and bruised but holding his jaw up definitely like he did, being suddenly torn open by the feeling of Jakes’ knife slipping through his ribs; it was horrific. The man Morse trusted most, admired and respected more than anyone else, his captain, his constable and his best friend. 

The air was thinner suddenly, Jakes could barely breathe. His shoulder was aching again, his head apparently doubling its efforts to split him down the middle and his chest was burning. None of it mattered though, not when -  _ Oh God his best friend was dying -  _ not when -  _ You’re not doing anything Peter, do something -  _ not when -  _ You’re killing him Peter -  _ not when -  _ “What have you done? What have you done!” -  _ was that Thursday’s voice?  _ You killed him Peter _

Jakes screamed. 

“Jakes! Peter!” Thursday’s voice, yes it was, here, in the room. There were hands on him too, tightly wrapped around his arm, one under his chin. He was turned none-too-gently to look into the eyes of his -  _ dead  _ \- best friend’s father. 

“Sir- I’m-” he could hardly get his words out, but he had to apologise, had to beg forgiveness, not that he deserved it. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I never-” His chest felt like it was caving in, his heart exploding against his ribs. Memories came back in broken shards, flickers of Morse’s face, of Thursday’s cries, of the look on Morse’s face as he killed him, of blood on his hands. Thursday’s grip on him tightened, and suddenly Jakes could feel hands on him everywhere, older memories now; hands on his legs, arms, neck, back. A cane across his shoulder, and then teeth on his neck.  _ Morse’s hands on his back, a soft pillow at his head; Morse had saved him. Morse had saved him from all of it and now he couldn’t save Morse. _

Thursday spoke but all he heard was ringing. He held Jakes tighter and all he wanted to do was scream. He had killed Morse, wasn’t that punishment enough, to live with the horror. Now Thursday’s hands pulled at him, just like before, when he was a bad little boy and he had to be disciplined. The six-foot something cocky police sergeant, commander-in-chief of Oxford’s magical police force was gone, replaced with the ghost of one terrified young boy. Maybe he deserved this, to relieve every moment, everything he feared most. He felt tears falling again, and he hated himself for it. Words fell from his lips, pleading, without his permission; words he’d cried out so many times before. 

“Please, I’m sorry- don’t hurt me, please! Stop, I didn’t mean it-” The grip on him vanished, just like that. The room, which had faded out to a blurred grey, slowly reappeared before him, colour seeping back in. Cream sheets, navy jacket, red blood on the back of dirty hands, blue curtains at the window, pink daisies on the side table. Noise returned too, the ringing in his ears fading out, his own breathing slowly calming, the distant clatter of hospital life trickling in, and then Thursday’s voice, calm and even from somewhere beside him. 

“Peter, I’m sorry,” gruff and thick, but so reassuringly  _ Thursday _ . His wits somewhat more gathered, Jakes ran a hand across his face, and turned to look at his inspector. “I didn’t… think. I shouldn’t have…” he nodded his head down, towards his own hands. Jakes said nothing, not trusting that he had a voice steady enough to say anything. “You’ve been through a lot these past few days, I should have realised you needed… space.” Though the words were kind, they sent another pang of guilt washing over him. Here Thursday was feeling sorry for him, while Morse lay dead in the other room- oh God he could feel it again, another sharp pain blossoming in his chest- then Thursday saved him. 

“He’s alive Jakes. He’s alive, Christ man, breathe.” When Thursday’s hand came for him this time, he managed not to flinch. His movements were slower this time, and an offer too. A hand held out, to help him off the bed. “You’re just like him sometimes, you know that?” He let Thursday guide him down, let him pull him towards the door. 

“You’re not going to believe me, so come on.” They walked quietly down the length of the corridor, Thursday’s hand a constant hovering presence beside him. Jakes for once was glad of the hand, not quite sure his legs could carry him at it was. They made it into the room Morse was in, and he was  _ there,  _ he was  _ alive -  _ he was laid out in bandages, with Monica gently wrapping a blanket around him, tying a hospital tag around his least damaged wrist - but he was  _ alive.  _ Jakes legs finally gave out, and it was only Thursday’s quick reflexes that stopped his hitting the floor head first. He was lowered down gently, Thursday’s voice in his ear. 

“Easy now, Peter, easy.” Jakes was faintly aware of Monica at his side, of the warm flood of soothing magic that fills him. Numbing, but in the most wonderful of ways. Smothering the fiery aches, it lets him sink further into Thursday’s arms. He can feel himself being lifted, maneuvered into a bed or chair; he’s too tired to figure out which. Then a cool hand is pressed to his cheek; Monica.Her voice is soft and sweet, like music. “Come on now love, let’s get you seen to.” He nods once, groggily, before slipping quite peacefully into a world of blissful nothingness. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!


End file.
